Something Wicked
by CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen
Summary: Sherlock gets some nasty news and an even nastier scare when Molly Hooper is discovered murdered (Now a series in the spirit of Halloween! Even if it isn't Halloween anymore...)
1. Molly Is Dead

**So here's a little one shot for everyone in the spirit of Halloween! I think I might make it a two shot or series of one shots because this has turned out to be an excellent writer's block activity.**

Sherlock was bored.

He was so very much bored that he would have been willing to take nearly any case thrown at him. Even finding some little boy's cat was better than simply sitting there, waiting for John to get back, and waiting for a case. Sherlock had absolutely nothing to do, and he was on the verge of destroying his flat just for the tiniest sliver of mental stimulation when his cellular device began to ring. For some reason Lestrade was calling him instead of texting, but he did not care as he scrambled for the phone to pick it up. Those questions could be asked later.

"Got a case for me? Nine, four, whatever just give me the address and I'll come—"

"Sherlock—"

"—And then I can just—"

"Sherlock—"

"And—"

"SHERLOCK!"

Finally Sherlock stopped, noting the tone of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's voice. He was frustrated, stressed out, sad—he had bad news, "Yes. Of course, speak."

"It's Molly she's uh—the pathologist we have at Barts—"

"I know very well who Molly is, she's a friend." _She counts._

"S-Sherlock it's bad. Oh God—Oh lord oh—" It was bad if even Lestrade was reacting. He was a hardened member of Scotland Yard. But sentiment obviously played a role in this call (most likely made purely on impulse) and finally Sherlock found he had to cut off his stuttering. Otherwise all the scenarios for what could possibly be wrong would run through his head. He didn't need that, he needed to know precisely what was wrong.

"Is she injured?"

"No…no Sherlock she's dead. Murdered. Her flat—oh I shouldn't have—"

Sherlock hung up.

Molly Hooper is dead.

This fact hit him like ton of bricks. It was illogical, but somehow he couldn't imagine someone like Molly dead, and he also couldn't imagine anyone wishing to murder her. His mind stopped for a full minute, before he sprang into action, brushing past a tired just off work John, and hailed a cab. Molly couldn't be dead. She just couldn't be. He hurriedly paid the cabbie and ran up three floors and past those who tried to stop him. Inside the flat, he stopped dead at what he saw, cataloging everything automatically, distancing himself from the fact that it was Molly—his pathologist—his Molly was dead. Is dead. He had to correct himself, dead wasn't something in the past tense, it was a state of being, it would never change.

The living/dining/kitchen room had been torn up, too much for it to have been a result of a struggle—Molly is dead-blood sprayed the walls, and it was also used to write something in a language of symbols Sherlock didn't immediately recognize—Molly is dead—The killer obviously had a grudge against Molly—Molly is dead—Most of the blood had been taken from the victim's body in order to write so much on the walls—Molly is dead—The body was on the ground in the middle of the room, suggesting that they didn't put up a fight—Molly is dead.

Andersen and Donavan were for once silent as he approached her pale body. She had been stabbed six times in the chest and one from the back, suggesting that she had been taken by surprise. Molly probably hadn't even had time to scream for help that would have probably come too late. There wasn't even a chance for her to fight against her attacker and against death.

"Whoever did this was either delusional or had a vendetta against her—or both." Sherlock told Lestrade, trying his best to treat Molly's murder just like another case. It wasn't working. Molly is dead. Why was that causing his brain the short out the way it was?

"But who would want to kill Molly? She was sweet." For the first time, Donavan actually said something Sherlock could agree with. He felt his heart twitch at the "Was" in the statement. Molly is dead, therefore she _was _sweet. His heart twitched again. He wanted to vomit, despite the fact that it wasn't a logical response. He had seen loads of bodies before—_but none of them were Molly._

"Sherlock maybe you should—"

"Catch who did this? Great idea, detective inspector, we should begin as soon as possible shouldn't we?" Sherlock immediately replied, his words having more even more edge than usual.

"Leave it to the freak to not care about—"

Somehow, Sherlock's body moved of its own accord, his arm deciding it would be a brilliant idea to punch Andersen in the nose. Sherlock couldn't have agreed more. It took six others too keep him from knocking Andersen even more senseless than his natural state. Yes, the punch felt good. However, this lead to him being thrown into a cell for his own good, which certainly wasn't productive for—for what? Molly's dead, and finding the bastard who killed her wouldn't bring her back. She would never be there to let him into the morgue, or help him with some of his experiments. She would never bring him coffee again. Black with two sugars. She would never annoy him with her bumbling lack of conversational skills or that little crush she managed to keep despite all the horrible things he ever said to her.

This was regret.

John arrived, settling down on a chair placed outside of the cell, "Sherlock you punched Andersen—"

"Molly's dead." Sherlock interrupted, his flat voice echoing through the cell.

"I know, Sherlock. That's why I'm here, I'm worried."

"Why?"

"Because Molly is dead, and you're lashing out and—"

"JOHN SHUT UP!" Sherlock tried to escape within his mind palace, and once he realized he couldn't banish Molly from his mind, he cried out in frustration and tried to analyze the facts, but they weren't organized and refused to compute entirely. He clutched his head in his hands, curling up in a ball. No one from the handful of people he could go out on a limb and say he cared about ever died until that moment. Why Molly? Why couldn't the killer have just broken in to the flat next door, where a girl a little younger than Molly, but with similar height and build resided?

John backed away, and despite Sherlock's state, he could still capture the conversation between John and Donavan.

"I…I feel bad. I didn't realize that he—oh God. He's going to go mad isn't he? He wasn't normal before but now…now I don't think…I'm sorry."

"He liked her, believe it or not."

"I can certainly believe it now."

She retreated, but John remained, and Sherlock gave no indication that he was within earshot. It was agreed that Sherlock would have nothing to do with the case, as he took it far too personally. Lestrade was taken off it as well, but all Sherlock could think about was the fact that HE the best man for the job, wasn't supposed to investigate. This didn't stop him from breaking into the morgue, and staring at the very much dead Molly Hooper on the table after he took—her—the body—huh—brain—not—functioning—out of storage. Her mouth was upturned slightly, as if she had died smiling. Obviously she didn't, no one would die smiling when being murdered.

He stood up, about to leave, lingering at the door. Turning he started walking out when he heard a huge gasp. Sherlock spun to find Molly Hooper sitting up, the sheet falling to expose her bare breasts. She was still unnaturally pale, but blood was rushing back to her cheeks. Stumbling back, Sherlock couldn't believe what he was seeing. Molly was very much alive, gasping for air. He was hallucinating obviously—that had to be it, he must have shot up after hearing about her death. His hands were shaking when faced with this great impossibility.

"That bloody bitch! She thought she could kill me and she was what? A hundred and fifty years old at most? Ugggh what part of 'Immortal witch' do silly brats like them not understand?"

Sherlock openly gaped, and for the first time Molly noticed him. She snatched up the sheet, "Oh…Sherlock um…hi. Oh...um…this is…um…bad."


	2. Molly Was Dead

**Really, I'm almost finished with the next chapter of Not My Name, I promise. This fun little thing is probably a piece of crap, but it only took a bit of time in my busy schedule to write. I originally intended for the first chapter to be a One Shot, but the ten reviews (thanks a lot guys!) I got demanded another chapter.**

**I do not own Sherlock! **

**Enjoy.**

"Okay, Sherlock. Now I don't want you to panic just breathe deeply and—ompf."

Sherlock had somehow managed to launch himself across the room, wrapping his arms around a very alive and very much breathing Molly Hooper. She felt so warm, and it felt so good to feel her body move, and hear her gasp at his unexpected embrace. The warmth she had spread through him, more real than any hallucination and unlike any dream he hadn't deleted.

"You're dead. Stabbed once in the back, and then six times in the front. There was no struggle, and the killer messed up your flat afterwards. I punched Andersen. You're supposed to be dead, but you're not and I'm hallucinating and—"

"I know this is quite a lot for you to take in. Wow, usually this is the point where you faint. None of this hugging stuff."

"Faint? Wait usually implies that—"

"I've died five times in the years that I've known you Sherlock. Two times before this time you behaved very similarly. You—you come to the morgue at night and take my body out…then I wake up. This is the first time you haven't fainted."

Sherlock felt a sob rise in his throat, pressing his face into her neck, feeling her pulse, "Molly, Molly, Molly—" He couldn't make sense of what she was saying. She couldn't have died more than once but still be alive before him; that was simply impossible. But a tiny nagging voice in the back of his mind warned him that he was denying the evidence plainly laid out for him. Molly is alive.

"Listen, Sherlock." Molly had given up on prying him away and instead wrapped her arms about him, "You're going to go to sleep and when you wake up, you won't remember any of this. Everything will be fine, business as usual. So—so um, you can stop um hugging me now. Really, I'm fine. I'm okay."

As she pushed him with her left hand, Sherlock backed away, eyeing Molly. She was flushed, alive, still clutching the sheet against her bare chest, "This isn't possible."

"Improbable but not impossible."

"How are you alive?"

"Oh I thought you heard me…I'm a witch and I'm immortal. I kind of can't die. Well not kind of, I mean I pretty much tested out everything, knives, guns, plagues, malaria, spells, hanging…getting off topic again. I need to um…get dressed."

"Molly please tell me—"

"Tell you what, Sherlock? I'm just going to erase your memory anyway, so I really don't have to sit through your crisis as everything you've ever known about the universe comes crashing down around your ears. Oh…that wasn't very nice…I know this is hard for you."

"Molly please tell me what's going on!" Sherlock found himself almost begging, "I thought you were dead, don't you realize—I was going to—" He was going to find a man he knew that carried all sorts of ways to remove memories. He was going to shoot up with the strongest of whatever he had, and drift away and forget all about Molly. She seemed to sense his distress and the words he was trying and failing to grasp.

"I know. You did last time. I'll be right back."

Moments later, she emerged, fully dressed in an ugly yellow jumper and jeans, her hair down and around her face, and a small wane smile gracing her too thin lips. Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled her into yet another embracing, cursing this sentiment that had overtaken him. He chalked it up to shock, or perhaps it was a dream, in which case his actions bore no unfortunate consequences. Molly returned the hug, kissing his cheek.

"It's a shame, Sherlock. I literally have to die before you realize I'm your friend. Anyone else wouldn't have come back to you so conveniently."

"Then don't make me forget how much you actually do mean to me."

"That's against the rules."

"You break rules all the time."

"Well having a mortal know about me is one of those big no, no's like on par with killing."

"You musntn't tell a soul."

"Molly, you kept my fake suicide a secret, I think I can take whatever this is."

She smiled, looking down at her feet before up at him again, "So, Sherlock what are your questions?"

"How old are you?"

"Oh, you start with the offensive one, I see. Let's see….going by the number of times I've been on the earth rotating about the sun um…I'm approximately one thousand, one hundred and forty years old, give or take, and born in the winter of the first year of Alfred the Great's reign." She paused, looking up at the flickering light, "So…yeah, even though you're clever, you cannot actually grasp how long I've been alive."

Sherlock blinked, "You are a witch?"

"Yes. No greenface and broomstick though, I assure you."

"Are all witches—" Dare he say it? "Immortal?"

"No. Only the cursed ones." Molly smiled at him, plucking a peace of lint from his shoulder.

"How is it a curse?"

"A long life where nearly everyone you've ever loved will wither and die before your eyes isn't a blessing Sherlock. It's also boring. Why do you think I hang around you?"

At this point, Sherlock chuckled, "How is any of this possible?"

"Easy. It simply is. Nature and science intermingle with the supernatural and unknown all the time, Sherlock. You mortals are so clever, but so simple at the same time."

"Speaking cryptically doesn't suit you, Molly."

"Nor do jokes." Molly frowned, sitting on the bench where she once was dead—what a strange thought, referring to death in the past tense—and beckoned for him to sit next to her. Sherlock found himself doing so, found himself sitting next to this impossibility of a woman. She laced her hand in his, and then turned quickly giving him a peck on the lips, "Sherlock. I meant what I said. There are some rules I'm not allowed to break."

Before he could fully come to terms with the fact that she had so fearlessly kissed him, he had succumbed to a deep sleep.

He woke up, aware of the strange dream he hadn't deleted—a dream about Molly being dead. It had been horrible, it had made him feel things, real strange unfamiliar things. Devastation. Grief. Confusion. Fear. Death. Getting dressed while still replaying the dream—no it must have been a memory, he sped out the door and hailed a taxi. Just like the dream he found himself racing to her flat, not bothering with the buzzer and taking a back entrance. At Molly's door, he froze at last.

Slowly, Sherlock raised his curled, slightly shaking hand and knocked.

Molly opened the door, wearing a dressing gown with ducks all over it, and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "S-Sherlock what are you doing in here?"

He brushed past her and into the flat, finding it devoid of blood, or anything suspicious. The only odd part of her flat was another painting hanging up of a forest. Sherlock turned back towards Molly, who had her arms crossed protectively across her chest.

"Molly, I had the strangest of dreams—"

"So…you've arrived at my flat at exactly four in the morning because of a dream? Okay, do whatever, I'm going back to sleep now…."

Sherlock didn't miss the smirk gracing her lips as she shuffled towards the bedroom, or the way that the front door closed on it's on accord.

So Molly would still bend and break rules for him.

**Did you guy enjoy it?**


	3. The Booth At The End

**So these really have no overarching story. I think each one will have some sort of theme though. Today's theme: The Booth At The End (Excellent Hulu original show)**

After Sherlock raced to Molly's flat at four in the morning, he found himself having a bit of an off day which was extremely peculiar as he _never _had off days. It started with tripping over one of the experiments resting in his bedroom. That never happened, and had taken several days to properly set up. Then while on a case, his coat snagged on a random hook (who leaves a random rusty hook alongside the wall of an alley for God's sake?) thus allowing the man he was pursuing to get away. There were also no leads on her so far, adding to his irritation. What would have been the breaking point for any ordinary person was a woman (blonde hair, blue eyes, young, pretty, dumb as a brick) accidentally dumping incredibly hot coffee on him as he got out of the taxi in front of St. Barts.

He knew it was a bad idea to still go to the morgue, but he needed to examine the body again—and not even the prospect of—completely accidentally—not really—sort of—it's complicated—making Molly Hooper cry with his foul mood could stop him. Doing his best to remain the calm cool individual everyone expected, even though John (tailing behind dutifully) knew he was seething, Sherlock walked into the morgue but before he could open his mouth, Molly turned and spoke.

"You've been having a bad day." She stated, "I've got you some coffee." She gestured towards the Styrofoam cup on the table, "Sadly I have some bad news, Mr. Harold's body has been removed."

"For what purpose?!"

"B-Burial."

"He was murdered! His body is evidence, you cannot just—"

"It was a suicide. I signed off for it."

"Then you're an idiot."

Oddly enough, Molly wasn't standing down. She gave a small smile, standing up, and pressing the coffee into his hands, "John? I've got a lunch date. Make sure he doesn't tear anything apart."

She brushed past the both of them, and Sherlock turned to watch her go, "She's lying." He murmured.

"What?"

"…nothing."

Sherlock wouldn't tell John of his suspicions, but he wouldn't let it go either. Letting John leave (for some reason he found it necessary to work) he opted to follow Molly. Although it was rather juvenile (John would have told him it was a bit not good) Sherlock really wanted to know what had gotten into his pathologist. He had determined that the night before was simply an extremely bad dream, but he couldn't account for certain parts of it, making the truth of it swing wildly in either direction. Maybe it was best to simply ask.

Molly was surprisingly difficult to follow, and he almost lost her on more than one occasion. But she settled down in a booth at an old looking coffee shop by the window. She spoke to the waitress and moments later had coffee, but there was no sign of anyone. Sherlock decided to be very discreet, and walk in and sit down in the booth behind hers, so that he faced her, but only saw the back of her head. She in turn did not suspect a thing. He ordered a coffee, and waited.

A man walked through the door settling in front of Molly. He had a nervous twitch to him, was an alcoholic, former drug addict, and he was showing signs of going bald. Sherlock was the first to say that Molly's choice in men wasn't great but this man was an abomination. Upon further inspection, he found that it was the suspect he had been pursuing. Before he could intervene however, Molly spoke, initiating a fascinating conversation.

"Hello, Raul, it's been six months since our last meeting and it says here that you declared that you wouldn't come back to me for anything. What has changed?"

"B-before we go any further, I ask you this one question."

"I might answer, I might not."

"Are you the devil? Do you make deals with him? Are you some sort of demonic creature?"

"That's three questions. Now have you decided what you will do?"

"Well are you?"

"What I am is entirely irrelevant to what you want, Raul."

"…I…I killed one, just like you said—and then I get a call about my Da. I hadn't seen him in years, but he left me money—enough to cover the debts. This is—this is your doing isn't it?"

Sherlock's blood ran cold. What was he saying? This was ridiculous, what was this man talking about? How could she coerce a man into killing someone? Why? What did this have to do with an inheritance?

"It's the deal."

"…did he ever do anything, you know…wrong?"

"As far as I know Thomas Harold age forty-six was an upstanding citizen."

"Oh…why did he have to die?"

"Because it was the deal."

"Why did you give me such a horrible deal?"

"Remember, Raul, you could have walked away. You were the one to pull the trigger. You were the one that wanted something."

"I—you—"

"Are we finished? Or would you like to make another deal?"

The now sickly pale man stood up and left the coffee house. Sherlock decided it was time to confront her. He settled down in front of Molly, finding it odd how the different lighting could make her seem more sinister, and much less vulnerable. Her eyes widened upon seeing him, but her smile remained.

"Hello, Sherlock. Have you come to make a deal?"

"What is this?"

"My business." She gestured towards the paper, "This is my real job."

"You work at a morgue."

"Yes, yes I do."

"You convinced a man to kill another."

"No. He convinced himself to."

"That dream…it was real."

"Very good, Sherlock."

"So you're a—" The word wouldn't come out correctly no matter how he focused on it.

"Witch? Yeah." Molly's smile widened as she began writing something down on a piece of paper and folding it, "I chose not to clear your memory this time. Everyone who sits in this seat is technically clear for knowing we exist. So Sherlock, what do you want most in the world?"

For you to be normal, "I don't want anything, especially not if murder is the cost."

"Not always. Sometimes you have to help little old ladies across the street, or find someone who is missing. It depends on the desire, as nothing is free." Molly sighed, "Welcome to the real world, Sherlock Holmes."

"Moriarty."

"What?"

"Moriarty you helped him, why?"

"He made a deal. I told him I would give him what he wanted if he fulfilled the price. All magic has a price. He couldn't pay it, therefore he failed."

"What deal? What price?"

"He wanted a perpetual game that would never bore him. In exchange he would have to convince you to kill yourself." Molly put her hand on his, "Don't worry, I wasn't too happy about the deal, and I knew you were too smart for it."

Sherlock recoiled, "You almost got me killed."

"No. He almost got you killed. All I do is offer the choice. Fulfill your end, I get my end."

"What end do you get?"

"Details. Also it keeps the world around me at an equilibrium otherwise I cause too much trouble. Being an abomination, even among witches is tricky business. If I stopped making six or seven deals a year, then the balance is off. Nine is the best."

"What happens without balance?"

"War. Hurricanes. Poverty. People dying that shouldn't have. Once people rose from the dead. That wasn't fun. Isolated incidence in the seventies—nineteen seventies that is. There are a lot of seventies when you think about it." Molly was babbling again, and Sherlock realized that she was still a babbling bumbling cheerful person.

"But still you made a deal with Moriarty. When was this?!"

"Uhh before you knew who he was."

"What." It his voice was flat, and didn't sound like a question, "So you knew, and didn't bother to tell me? He killed people, he made me worry about y—people and you knew this entire time?"

Molly shrugged, "People die."

"How can you say that?"

"Look who's gotten sentimental! Good for you, I'm proud. You see you and I are different. I've lived several centuries, and you'll be considered lucky if you reach one. There's only so much caring about people who die like mayflies you can do before you go insane. Oh!" The waitress came, placing a large plate with a piece of chocolate covered cheesecake, "This place has the best desserts, while you're here, Sherlock, you should definitely try the strudel."

_What are you?_

"I already told you, I'm a witch. I didn't clear your memory because I thought this would be interesting. Please don't disappoint me, Sherlock; I'm ever so bored and ever so tired. This will be so much fun!" Molly's nervous giggle turned into a full blown cackle, and Sherlock was surprised no one in the café reacted to it. The waitress came and cleared her empty plate, and the cackling continued. It was only then that Sherlock realized that his question was never spoken out loud.


	4. Chapter 4: What Is Lost

The next time Molly died, it was completely one hundred percent Sherlock's fault. They had been working silently in the morgue as Molly performed an autopsy and he was working on a particularly strange experiment on a corpse. A man walked in unattended, and before Sherlock even looked up he knew the man had a pistol in his overcoat pocket. Sherlock expected that he was the target of this, but when he whipped out the pistol and fired a shot, it hit Molly squarely in the chest.

Reasons didn't matter, Sherlock was already disarming the man, throwing him in an unconscious heap, asking him WHY—why he had the nerve to target HIS pathologist. Sherlock found himself at a bleeding Molly's side, cradling her, about to lift her up and take her to the emergency room upstairs, but she stopped him, somehow sensing that she would not make it between the morgue and there. So reasons did matter, Sherlock realized as he eyed the twitching heap of a man who would soon be considered the murderer of his pathologist.

"S-Sherlock—I'm fine—I will be—honest. Remember?" She gasped, clinging to life, "Listen to me—listen to me." She grabbed his face, snapping him out of the slight panic that always overtook him. Everything she would say and do would defy logic, "Hide me. Clean up. They heard the shot, and they're coming—put me in there." She gestured towards the freezer. "Say he missed, lie about where I am—" She heaved, obviously about to die, "Spare clothes are in my desk."

Sherlock did as she said, without a doubt believing that her curse was really more of a blessing for him. She was indestructible, and would be a constant for the rest of his life, not even growing older to signify change. It was oddly comforting.

That didn't mean it still didn't scare the living fuck out of him every time something happened.

Hours later, Molly woke up, took a shower, and put on her clothing, giving Sherlock a small smile in return for his services. Sherlock took her hand, and wordlessly they travelled a few blocks to her flat.

"You would be dead because of me. He was upset at me for putting away his wife for murder."

"It's an understandable anger."

"But why you?"

"Because, Sherlock." Molly flipped her hair over her shoulder for emphasis, "I'm your friend, and I appear to be the weakest link, probably because of my physical size. If you wanted to take another perspective, I'm your best option for a love interest considering my gender and his hetero-normative views, and thus he would hypothesize that my death would be a large emotional blow." She shrugged.

"You're very confident right now."

"It's the cheating death bliss. Kind of gives you an 'I'm on top of the world/I just had sex/I figured out a Rubix Cube!' feeling, I suppose. So Sherlock, will you tell me what you want yet?"

"Nothing."

This had become a routine of sorts. Molly would ask him what he desired most in the world, and he would remind her he didn't want anything. Otherwise she behaved just the same as she always had, her mind working too quickly for her mouth, and her jokes still being particularly bad. Really the only thing that had changed was something he noticed after the fall. She wasn't infatuated with him. Attracted to him, maybe, friendly, certainly, but she wasn't infatuated. It seemed almost disappointing.

"Oh I have an appointment today, would you like to observe?"

Sherlock nodded, and as Molly mindlessly chattered, they neared the café. It was an odd sort of place, the type that most would simply walk past, and he realized that it wasn't just people ignoring it; people didn't know that it was there at all. He accepted this little observation, and stored it away to ask Molly about for later. They sat down at the booth, and Sherlock glanced over at the other people occupying the establishment. A piglike man who was wolfing down eight slices of cheesecake, a woman with shades propped up on her head drinking wine in the afternoon, and a few ordinary looking teenage girls were chattering in the corner.

"—and I did the spell and he got pimples! Can you believe it? They can airbrush now, but his stage acting career will like totally be over."

"Serves him right." Another girl chimed in, "You have to look at this totem I got while I was in New Orleans! It's so pretty AND it can tell you when werewolves are around. Cool huh?" She was holding some sort of Hello Kitty necklace, going to show that style wasn't everyone's strongpoint. Casting spells on actors, apparently could be.

"Look at them. I remember being that young." Molly sighed deeply, "Only thirty years old they are. Here." She passed Sherlock a menu, allowing him to look at the oddities listed among completely normal things like coffee and tea.

Newt Eyeballs

O+ Blood

Maiden's Hair Pasta (Made with authentic 100% Maiden's Hair Guaranteed!)

Raw Beef

Witches Brew Soup

Chocolate Frogs (Careful, don't let them hop away!)

Mystic Strudel

"What the hell is a mystic strudel?"

"Well it's just like any other strudel but it's infused with magic that temporarily heightens your senses. It's a fan favorite among the mortals who come here."

"…all right then."

A meek looking woman came in, and Sherlock ticked off all his observations mentally. Young, recently married, has had a rough life, probably beaten by a father figure as a child, poor and old clothing. Age twenty-two, pregnant. She sat down in front of Molly warily, jumping when the waitress came with her tea.

"Who's that, Molly? You said this is confidential, purely confidential—"

"Relax Tiffany. He's a friend of mine."

"Is…is he one of your kind?"

"Well he's not female, so no." Molly shrugged, opening her notebook. Sherlock tried to gain a peek inside, but found that it was written in a language he didn't know. He realized that it shared some of the symbols that were written on Molly's walls the night he thought she was dead. "So you have done the first part of your task, correct?"

"Yes, yes! I started printing out flyers for him, and handing them out, and what happened to this boy, Molly?"

"He is missing. You must try to find him in order to get what you want."

"If I find him…will Derek will he leave me alone?"

"Well your exact words in the deal were 'disappear, like dead or something, can you do that for me?' I agreed. "All you have to do is find the missing James Foster."

The woman nodded, "Yes. Yes I think I can do that…but can I use help?"

"Of course. It didn't say you have to alone. I like you, so I'm going to tell you that. And I think I have the perfect man to help you, Tiffany." Molly smiled over at Sherlock, "How about finding a missing kid eh?"


	5. Can Be Found

**Here's another chapter! Happy Halloween! I probably will leave it after this one, and MAY post a story from time to time, but there will be little continuity and probably no more than a two shot arc like this one.**

Sherlock followed Tiffany through the street, his hands stuffed in his pocket as she spoke in a hurried, nervous voice. "So what I've gathered is that Jaime is usually walked home from school with his nanny. They were walking and then he raced behind a corner and when she caught up, he was gone. He's been missing for about two days, yeah?" She gave him a file folder from her purse, and Sherlock found that she was surprisingly organized in her investigation for an uneducated dropout. If she had stayed in school instead of listening to her family, she could have been incredibly successful in whatever boring thing she wanted to do. She was still stupid in comparison to him, but smart.

"That's a long time. How do you know he's not dead?"

Tiffany cringed at the thought, her hand automatically going to her stomach, "He's not. Molly doesn't give impossible tasks. Just hard ones. That's how I know he's alive, and how I know he can be found."

"Have you gone to her before?"

"Yes."

"What did you ask for?"

She smiled grimly, "The ability to hate my husband, to leave him, and to have the bravery to do so. I couldn't do the task."

"What was it?"

"Purposely hitting a dog with my car. So I made a new deal, and finding a missing child is far better, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded.

"What did you want? Is your deal helping someone, or something?"

"I haven't made a deal with Molly."

"Oh. Why not?"

"There's nothing I want."

"That's impossible, you know. 'Mortals are always in want.' Molly said that once, and it's true. We always want something, which is why we find places like the café and practically make deals with the devil."

"Molly's not the devil."

"I know." Tiffany laughed, "But she's not an angel either. I don't think she actually cares about the missing kid or me getting beaten, or you and whatever fucked up life has led you to this version of London. Everything looks different now yeah?"

It was true. London didn't quite look the same ever since Molly 'died' it seemed darker and brighter at the same time. He noticed people too pale, walking with shades and umbrellas even when the sun was nowhere in sight. Little shrew like women were selling odd looking wares to the few passerby that noticed their existence. Once, he even saw a short woman with a green face walking among the crowd completely unnoticed. How he never noticed this was miraculous, but it was probably related to Molly's tampering with his memory. That was also something he wished to address and was admittedly slightly frightened of. Molly could alter his entire perception of the world in a heartbeat, and he could do nothing to stop it.

"Yes."

"Molly ain't the only one either. But she says we shouldn't look too hard, otherwise we get addicted to the supernatural." Tiffany gave a big grin, "Now, I've heard 'bout you and I'm wondering if you already know where he is."

"Did the nanny quit?"

"Uh yeah how'd you—"

"I've already read this." Sherlock waved it, "You also put her address, which will be abandoned. She has him, as she has probably formed an attachment to him and had stupidly decided to take him away. Her story was either fabricated or she had an accomplice to make the nanny's noninvolvement more realistic." Sherlock ticked this off in a bored manner, as Tiffany's eyes widened.

"Wow it's true, that blog is actually true."

"Yes." Sherlock thumbed through the papers, "Ever considered a career in police work? You could outsmart most of Scotland Yard with this."

"No…not really. I didn't go to uni and I'm going to be a mum—a single mum soon, so that's out."

"Hmmm shame."

In the end, it took just seven hours for James Foster to be reunited with his family, Sherlock simply prodding Tiffany in the right direction most of the time. He supposed it wouldn't count as part of the deal if he was the one to find the boy instead of Tiffany. Sherlock walked off before he could be recognized, and found himself drifting back to the coffee house that was now etched into his memory. Molly was talking to Raul again when he showed up. The man was agitated once more.

"I—I can't do this, take it back, make it stop!"

"I can't."

"Then let me make another deal!"

"What do you want then, Raul?"

"—I want to stop feeling guilty about killing that man!"

Molly looked down in that book of hers, writing something down, and "Ah yes. Another deal, another payment must be made."

"What do I have to do?" Sherlock slid into the booth behind them, not wanting to interrupt.

"Break up a married couple."

"That'd just make me even guiltier! What else is there? Can I make him come back?"

"Raise the man you killed from the grave? Make it so he never died? Yes. The price of life is very high, I warn you." Molly's tone was so different when she spoke to these people, so entirely serious. She barely broke a smile for Tiffany.

"What do I have to do?"

"Kill someone, and kill yourself with them." Molly read off the paper in a dry tone, "That's the deal. If you and another person die by your own hand, then he will live once more."

"These deals are horrible."

"These deals are deals. Messing with life and death, rich and poor, real and unreal, is an incredibly difficult task with consequences often unforeseen. This is actually the safest way to do so. But remember, no matter what, the strings strangle you because you pull them, not because I showed you where they are."

"…Let me think on it. Can I choose which of those two deals to do?"

"That's perfectly fine. Both are valid."

Raul got up and shuffled from the room, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he went. Sherlock slid into the seat across from Molly. She smiled, "Do you know what you want yet, Sherlock?"

"Nothing." Came his gruff reply, as he replayed the conversation over and over again in his mind.

"James Foster was returned to his home safely. Derek hasn't been seen since Monday. Tiffany was given an eighty thousand pound reward for her heroic actions, more money than she has seen in her entire life, and Lucy the nanny was unsuccessful in her kidnapping of James Foster, therefore she failed in her deal."

"The nanny made a deal with you too? Over what?"

"She wanted Mrs. Hadley Foster out of the way because she has unrequited feelings for Mr. Foster." Molly shrugged, "Silly mortals. They don't realize that the worse they do, the less likely they are to complete the deal."

Sherlock's eyes widened with realization, "Tiffany was a good person with little to hide, but too afraid to leave her abusive husband, but knew that she needed safety for her offspring. She succeeded, and received an unforeseen bonus. The nanny was bitter and angry and willing to kidnap the child she took care of to get the wife out of the picture. Raul killed a man for money so his intentions are blackened as well, but he succeeded, although he is eaten up by guilt and the money probably wasn't as much as he hoped…this is interesting, it's similar to the Hindu and Buddhist belief of karma."

"Karma is pretty close, except for the reincarnation part. Reincarnation only happens when certain spells are attached to a soul." Molly sighed. "Petty. You're all so petty and stupid. It's useless to form attachments to creatures that practically self-destruct. You're all so delicate, and you fold like a lawn chair under pressure."

"Not me."

"Oh you're my favorite type of mortal. The kind who thinks himself better."

She raised her hand, and with it, every muscle in his body seized up and he found that he couldn't move and only produced an "uhh" sound in reply.

"I could end your egotistical existence in less than a heartbeat. Instantly. Or I could slow your heart until it stops beating. Tales of witch hunters and slayers are full of it. A witch has never been killed by a human. You are but a tiny drop of water in the stream of people who have interacted with me. Yes, you're interesting in resisting your nature, but in the end, you are human." She leaned forward, "And I already know what you want."

Sherlock stiffened, suddenly feeling quite uncomfortable, "I suppose you do."

Molly's smile only widened, "But you're never going to ask for it, make a deal over it, are you?"

"No."

"Well then—"

"Why are you cursed?" Sherlock suddenly began to blurt out, and once the dam was broken all the other questions came through "What other types of creatures exist? Vampires, fairies, unicorns, what else? Do chocolate frogs really move? What else can you do other than alter memories, kill me instantly, and practically make deals with the universe? Where do the tasks in your deals come from? Is there any way you actually can die? Why doesn't everyone notice this café? Why am I suddenly seeing green people?"

"Well…your veil has been lifted, so to speak. What humans consider impossible cannot be, therefore it doesn't to them. When faced with it, or ready to accept it, the veil is lifted and suddenly they can see everything else. Uh let's see. Why I'm cursed is a rather painful memory I don't want to recount. If I could die, I would have already, so breaking the curse is the only way out. Practically everything on the internet about witches is true except for the melting in the rain thing. That just stings. Chocolate frogs do move, and a huge myriad of creatures you thought only to be fantasies exist. The short green people are elves. Happy?"

"Not in the slightest. Are you good or evil or somewhere in between?"

"Uhm no idea. I help people—but sometimes I help people do bad things or help them to their deaths…so…actually I don't think my personal morality can be measured on a good versus evil scale. Really it differs so greatly that it would be like comparing good and evil to bacon and necktie. Very little correlation. Now if you excuse me, I have a duel with an annoying witch to attend to. If I beat her, I get her cat!"

"But I still have questions!"

"Meh. Suppose you'll just have to deal then. See ya!" She gave a wave and disappeared from sight.

"Oh wow." The waitress refilled his water, "The last guy she did that to fainted."

Sherlock felt like banging his head against something hard. The more he asked, the more she answered, and the more confused he became.

**Poor Sherlock. I love making him confused though. As for my other story, I apologize for holding my finished chapter hostage, it is part of an experiment. The moment I hit 80 reviews I'll post it. If not, I'll be posting it on Monday.**

**Again. HAPPY HALLOWEEN! **


	6. Reunion and Murder

When Sherlock saw the runes and symbols painting the home of a fallen man, his hand acted on it's own accord, resolving to call Molly. Lestrade and John both gave him odd looks as he actually decided to call, "What Sherlock? I was sleeping."

"You were not sleeping you sound perfectly awake."

"Actually yeah I am, I'm busy though."

"I think this will be worth your time, shall I give you the address?"

He heard a begrudging sigh, "The things I do for you, mortal. Shall I make it five minutes to look like I was nearby? I already know where you are."

"Yeah, oh you're nearby, that's excellent. See you soon then." Sherlock hung up, gaining only now noticing Lestrade and John's disbelief.

"Who was that?"

"Oh. It was Molly. She interned on a case similar to this. Same symbols." Sherlock gestured rather feebly, before turning around, "She should be here in about—"

"Oh dear." Molly was suddenly there, looking around "This is a tinsy bit not good."

"What do you know about this, Molly?" Lestrade asked, Sherlock stiffening as he touched her arm.

"Oh. It's an occult sacrifice of sorts." Molly replied, seeming to forget herself in staring at the runes, "They're symbols derived from pictographs and Gaelic, referring to the old festival of Samhaim. That's Halloween. Usually, it's a peaceful celebration of spirits, when the veil between worlds is thinnest, but these runes are mocking it." Molly pointed at one, "Blood." "Hatred." Another, "Bitter ends. It means that they are bitter about the death of a loved one, and by making the sacrifice—this is life—they will tear the veil and bring them back." Turning back towards them, she looked at the body, "Seven wounds in all right? Seven bodies, wounds, it equals forty-nine. Forty nine times three—she pointed to the triangle drawn on the floor in blood, "is one hundred and forty-seven."

"And what's the significance of that number?" Lestrade's eyebrows were raised.

"That's the odd part. There is no significance. This ritual—black magic if you may—is meant to have three bodies, a three pointed triangle, and three stab wounds. A triad of threes equals nine, the most powerful number. Either this person is tweaking the ritual, or has absolutely no idea what they're doing."

"Really to think people think it actually works—" John started, and Molly and Sherlock found themselves sharing a conspiratorial smile.

"Well that's all I have for you." Molly stiffened and suddenly squeaked, "Uh…actually we should get out of here, like _now." _They gave her quizzical looks, "The killer is here."

Suddenly the door of the loo was blown off its hinges completely of its own accord. A woman emerged, with a look that could freeze hell in the direction of Molly, "Oh. So you're still meddling huh? It's been what? Two hundred years, Molly? I'd have thought you'd have gotten bored by now. I certainly am." Lestrade tried to shoot at her, but the bullet immediately flew off to the side and embedded itself into the wall.

"Oh I'm very bored, Cassandra. Entertain me, what's with the sevens? Oh and why were you hiding in the loo?"

"I wasn't hiding there, that's just where I appeared. Transport spells are nasty buggers. You're the only one I know that actually goes where you want to go."

"I remember when you got stuck in the wall of an Abby! That was hysterical. They thought you were a miracle!" Molly laughed, but then grew serious, "Again, we can reminisce later, for now I'd like to know why you're preying on mortals."

Sherlock cast a glance at John and Lestrade, both of whom looked so absolutely clueless that he almost wanted to laugh. They were barely following the conversation, but they were obviously having trouble processing the words being spoken by both parties.

"I am weak. I thought sevens would bring him back better than threes. Sevens were his favorite number."

"You could have come to me."

"And pay a hideous price? I much prefer just killing the mortals and using them for the spell."

"You need a witch too, you know. Is that why you sent that daughter of yours to kill me?"

"No. she thought she'd do it herself, and manages to prey on the one immortal witch other than me in the city. Sorry about that by the way, must have made quite the mess."

"She did tear one of my paintings."

"Oh shame." Cassandra frowned, "I try so hard, but she's at that rebellious stage in life. One day, she's a one year old infant, just pleased to be fed, next day; she's a hundred and thinks you're an idiot. Honestly I'm at my wit's end. I wouldn't be surprised if she went and joined one of those new fangled part time covens. Seriously a coven should be a commitment, not like a random retail job."

"Well maybe you should talk to her, open up communication a bit between you."

"She's still upset with me about her father."

"Bringing him back won't fix it. That's like having a baby to fix a relationship, or getting a puppy because you're lonely."

"Yeah. I will. So uhm, it was good to see you, we should definitely go out for coffee sometime, maybe meet my daughter without stabbing being involved. It will be just like old times. Except, without the whole stuffing each other into the guillotine."

"I said I was sorry!"

"Nah I wasn't angry, I just couldn't find my head for a bit. So I kind of have another ritual to get to and I've already done like six already…so Monday sound good?"

"Totally." Molly waved, and Cassandra walked out the door. The other members of the room were too confused—or in Sherlock's case shocked—to do anything to stop her. She turned towards them with an amicable shrug, "We were total besties during the Reign of Terror. We kind of grew apart. Shame huh? She's a great friend."

"…Reign of terror?" John finally broke the silence.

"Oh right." Molly snapped, John and Lestrade both falling to the floor. She whispered something and they disappeared, "Okay they should wake up in their beds, and the police report will become a missing person."

"You're letting her kill people."

"I can't intervene with another witch's deeds. It's kind of a law. Also if I piss her off, there's nothing worse than ANOTHER immortal witch hating your guts." Molly grinned, throwing her hand across the room. It was suddenly cleansed of blood and the body disappeared. She frowned slightly upon the finished product, "It's not very nice. But it's reality."


	7. The Black String

**Woot another random chapter! I really have no idea where this is going, it's just a lot of fun to write. Sorry about the delay on Not My Name. My other computer decided to dump information that wasn't backed up. With it went a few chapters of this, and the next two unpublished chapters of Not My Name. Yesterday was not my day...**

**Enjoy!**

Molly was oddly grim when Sherlock and John walked into her morgue. John assumed it was because of the children's bus crash that had occurred earlier that day, but Molly's eyes kept roving over to John. She was worried about him, Sherlock realized, but there wasn't anything to be too particularly worried about. John was perfectly fine although thanks to her he had been having tiny glitches in memory. Yet throughout their entire visit, her eyes were firmly set on Sherlock's flatmate. When John went to get some crisps out of the vending machine, Sherlock approached her, watching her as she kept careful attention on the specimen in her microscope.

"What is it?"

He saw the tiniest of internal debates on Molly's face before she smiled, "I can see his black string, out and ready to be cut."

"And that is...?"

"Really, didn't you read the book on knotcraft I gave you? If you wanted to understand what I could do, that would have been a good read since I dunno, I'm a knotcraft witch and deal with the strings that hold the universe together." Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she looked up at Sherlock, "Sorry, bad day. Anyway, the black string when seen signifies a life about to be cut short. It emerges rarely through one's life, and tends to be a day where they are more susceptible to being killed off."

"So John could die today?"

"Yes. It's worse because his is completely showing. I know he's your favorite human and all, so I thought I should tell you."

"What would you advise?"

"Usually? Live and let die. But today I feel like messing around a bit." She held out a piece of perfectly ordinary string, "Get him to wear this on his left wrist."

Sherlock nodded, pocketing the string as John walked in, "Are we going now?"

"Just a minute. Here hold on to this so I don't lose it." Sherlock tied the string to John's hand and kept walking without any explanation, giving Molly a small smile on the way out. She smiled back and waved, making an obscene hand gesture suggesting sexual intercourse between John and himself. He rolled his eyes and continued on his otherwise ordinary crime filled day. He had come to accept this reality after a fair amount of mental kicking and screaming.

As they walked through the streets, Molly's witch friend Cassandra was strolling, arm in arm with a man who had a bull's head, laughing cheerfully at what he said, a gloomy teenager walking behind her with her eyes glued on her cell phone. The crazy murderess waved at Sherlock before muttering something to her husband.

"Does she know you?" John asked.

"Friend of Molly's."

"You seem to be hanging around Molly a lot recently."

"She's interesting." Sherlock shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets, about to walk away when Cassandra ran up to him.

"Oi! You! Don't ignore me!" She grinned, "We're mutual friends now! So as a mutual friend, I'd like you to give Molly this." She held up a piece of paper before sticking it in his pocket, "You'll give it to her of course, kay? Kay."

"What's it say?"

Sherlock sighed, opening up the envelope, ignoring John's question.

_Sherlock, I KNOW YOU'RE READING THIS! It's not in our language after all. Destroy after reading. Don't trust Molly! I know you think you're safe being her pet but I warn you about this! If she hates you, she will kill you. If she likes you, she will tire of you. If she loves you, she will ruin you. Don't trust her! Then again you shouldn't trust me either, but DON'T TRUST HER!_

_ Ps._

_ The case is witchcraft. Drop it._


	8. Meet Lucy

Sherlock sat puzzling over the words of Cassandra when Molly appeared. He was used to this now, Molly suddenly being there and just as soon being gone. She giggled, wrapping an arm around him, "So Cassandra decided to mess with you eh?" The note tucked in Sherlock's pocket suddenly appeared in her hands, "I love it when she does this!"

"So what's the reason?"

"To see how much I pay attention to my pets of course!" Molly kissed his cheek and squealed, "Oh you totally have to come with me like now, remember that duel I told ya about? I won!"

Before Sherlock could protest, he endured the oddest experience to date. Molly clutched his forearm and suddenly the world burst into darkness hinted with strings of bright colors surrounding him, moving so quickly that they melded together. Then Molly let go, and he collapsed, suddenly able to breathe again. Before he even looked up (the carpet was a good indicator) he knew that he was in Molly's flat.

"Look!" Molly then proceeded to get in his face, holding up a black cat with white paws and blood red eyes, "This is Lucifer! I call him Lucy for short."

"Ah yes, on top of all the other indignities I have endured over these past millennia as well as being enslaved by yet another witch to do her bidding, I have to be renamed _Lucy. _That's all I've ever wanted. Really and truly it is. Hello mortal. If my master would put me down and stop dressing me up and all other nonsense she's been doing, I'd properly introduce myself."

Sighing, Sherlock rubbed his forehead, "Of course the cat talks."


	9. Hell and Cheer

**Just a tiny one today!**

"Why are you always so cheerful?" Sherlock asked the woman sitting next to him in the lab.

"Because I am." Molly chirped right back, "Lucy is a prime example of what happens when you don't keep an upbeat attitude over the centuries! Why do you think we had to stuff him in the body of a cat and force him into servitude for all eternity?"

"Sounds like hell."

"Well he used to be in charge."

"So you're saying hell's real."

"As real as you or me. Demons run it for all souls from the tiniest cricket to the greatest of witches. It awaits us all. Even me, should the time come. It's one of the three places I'm not allowed to go. No one can go until they're ready. Demons are already there, but they're not supposed to cross the line here. I can get a tour card and go to the sanctioned areas, but last time the wait was like two hundred years so I thought: why bother? It's not like I need a sneak peek for what awaits me beyond the veil."

"What are the other two places you can't go?"

"Asgard and Massachusetts."


End file.
